Kenny Rogers Convention

It is November 2, 2010.  

The Monarch Hotel in Portland is buzzing with the political fervor of patriots and anti-establishment types. A moral fervor that can be difficult to discern from the lusty appetite of the Republicans, also in attendance.

It’s like a Kenny Rogers convention in here. My fifty-seven year old father, Ed, is camouflaged in a crowd of silver hair, blue jeans and LL. Bean.

       Dusty junk and junkies on dust. Value Village on just an average day is a fiendish freak show of desperate creatures. A purgatory for discarded garments and discounted wares. I wonder how much of this junk once belonged to dead people. When a person expires, their loved ones feverishly devour their valuables and donate the leftovers to merchants of death like Value Village. I had the misfortune of being there right before Halloween night. It was a low budget consumerist orgy of ghouls and goblins only making themselves redundant by donning scary masks, makeup and costumes. 

It was a dark and dreary Halloween night. I quickly pieced together an 80’s outfit mostly using clothing I still wear today which made me wonder if I might need to update my wardrobe. Or maybe the world really just needs to slow down. I heard the angry horn blast of an approaching train mingled with the far off scream of sirens. I hightailed it out the door, navigating my black beast of a bicycle through wet weather. Soaked with pink electricity, the neon expectation of a good night  was waiting for me at Jonathan’s, downtown by the Elsinore Theatre. Shaking off the cold, I was met by a thirsty throng of 80’s throwbacks and assorted night crawlers all waiting to board ‘The Party Bus.’ 

Vantucky pt.1

      Its Friday. Payday. 9 PM. I feel anxious. Gotta get out of Salem. Dress casual. If they’re dressed really nice, then they’ll look like the uptight ones. Cece calls it ‘Vantucky.’ It's stuck in my head now. I love wordplay. Seventy sweat-soaked dollars to fill up the old Explorer. I want to blow-up every gas station in the country. I'm usually not so concerned with whats on the radio, but tonight I need something I can scream along with as I weave up I-5 like a snake through grass. The ‘What-Ifs’ are killin’ me. 


      The Rose Fest is in full effect down on the Portland Waterfront. It’s a quarter to eleven. I’ve been mostly dry for most of the last six months. Right now, whatever part of my brain that registers thirst is wishing that my saliva glands had PBR on tap. I'm praying to Jesus. I love adventure. This is like an adventure through the wilderness of human relationships. Five whole years, not one single word. I figured she was probably waist-deep in the fat unhappiness of most American marriages by now. I thought it, but I couldn’t picture it. Not the fat part anyway. Then, poof! Just like that, out of nowhere, here she is again. Still beautiful. 

VANTUCKY pt.2

  I'm glad I didn’t wet the couch. Whenever you pass out slightly pickled on someones nice comfy expensive looking couch there is always that really slim outside chance that you might have a dream about swimming carefree in the big wet salty ocean. Or the one where your on an ocean liner in your swimming trunks and you just got out of a nice warm hot tub to go look for a urinal.  Spot check, no moisture. Bone dry. Hooray


      Not sure how many scoops to put in the coffee mate. Weak coffee sucks. Better to go overboard. 

Eggs, bacon, hash browns, wheat toast, ice water. Gimme. Now.

  The girls wake up. Everyone is moving kind of slow, except Ruby. Ruby kind of reminds me of my Grandma Bonnie, bless her heart. I half remember and half imagine my grandma, bright and early in the morning, shuffling around in her antique looking house robe and matching slippers. Dyed, chocolate brown perm grown out into a kinky, cotton looking yarn. If Grandma’s ears had been more floppy and if Ruby could chain-smoke I’d almost consider spending more time researching reincarnation. I used to hate Grandma’s obnoxious poodle ‘Brandi’ but I like Ruby. And I miss Grandma. I had forgotten all about Ruby. Not Grandma though. The girls cant believe I once ate dog on purpose. Ruby doesn’t seem to mind. 

VANTUCKY pt.3

Back in Vancouver, somewhere. Cece’s talking to her Mom on the mobile. An intersection is rapidly approaching. She’s looking out the same window as me, so I know she sees it. Then, just as we’re about to pass under the traffic light in the right lane, she says “Oh yeah, we should probably turn left right here.”

The radio’s playing some happy Jazz swing I ain’t never heard before. Its good, not like that schizophrenic ego-istic garbage everybody pretends they like.

Deep Eyes...

020124 

January 24, 2002

tonight was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time. What’s scary about that, is that it was really nothing special. It was refreshing just to get outside of my comfort zone even if it was only for a lil’ while. So what did I do that was so special? I went to see Emily, a girl I work with, she sings classic Jazz tunes.

Her main influence is Ella Fitzgerald. She is beautiful. Ella and her. She put a spell on me. I’ve even asked myself if this girl was literally putting some type of spell on me. Some supernatural sex hex or maybe the cajun ‘gris-gris.’ Emily. Scary. 

I sat down with her and this classy ol’ fella’ named Eddie Ri-something. We made conversation, talked about Mardi Gras and some random Jazz- bullshit. I have the feeling that during this exchange, it was obvious as hell to all with eyes that I dug this chick. I mean, after being lonely for so long it really ain’t that hard to tell when I, the virgin, dig a chick. Eye contact is the conversation that needs no words. I pay way more attention to body language, then words. Especially with strangers. 

Rasheed Wallace and Boomshae Boomshae of the Portland Trailblazers were there, also Ken Blackman the black local TV news man was there. He was with some middle-aged blonde white woman, which I found humorous. Also I met a semi-handicapped guy named Todd, he seemed like the type of fella’ who is doing a lot more then he lets on, for better or worse. We were shooting the shit, and he could’ve swore Emily and I were brother and sister or boyfriend/girlfriend or something. He paid for one of my drinks and encouraged me to 'go for it!' 

Before the whole Brasserie Montmartre thing (or whatever the hell that place is called), I went down to Kelly’s Pub to eat. It just so happened it was hip-hop night. That was cool but the cook gave me this wimpy-ass chicken burger, so I sent it back. Whatever…I still had a good time there. 

Emily though, she’s scary. A beautiful woman. Not that she’s a perfect ten, she just has that shine. When she looks me in the eye I see steady deep waters. You know how with some people, you just see deeper into their eyes than normal. It’s almost like they're letting you see them naked. In Emily’s eyes everything stands still. Damn, I got goose-tits just thinking about it. 

Pianos are amazing instruments. Seated at the grand piano, picture a stylish old man with thick black rimmed glasses; sporting a grey, rat pack-ish,  semi-pimp suit, with a chunky gold pinky ring and a two inch ash curling like a pinkie fingernail from the end of the smoldering cigarette in his left hand. Next to that, now picture a mysteriously beautiful, thick bodied, curly haired brunette. Smokey blue stage light makes her seem to glow as the shadows of her curly locks fall across her face. The room seems like its holding its breath as Emily is belting out old Ella Fitz tunes. Singing with a rag time swagger about love and all that type of stuff. 

Mesmerized, here I sit, a lonely stiff; three quarters drunk off my ass, eyes glazed, just exhaling calmly like drunks do and taking it all in. She put a spell on me. I remember I was so drunk that by the time she finished her set and made her way to my table, I could hardly slur my speech right.

 When I am completely sober, most people still have a hard time tracking with me due to the Southern Louisiana accent; when I’m sauced, forget about it. So being fully aware, and overly self-conscious, of my poisoned state, I opted to avoid total destruction by way of drunken desperation and cut our conversation short before I said something that I couldn't take back. I found myself hardly walking home in the pouring pissing down rain. Drunk without a care in this cold wet world and singing Ella Fitz songs the whole way to my apartment. 

Enough.

A living masterpiece painting, Hmm. Ramsey Lewis “Down to Earth” is the frame. Her 'Deep Eyes' are the portrait…

(this was written a long time ago on January 24th, 2002)

ICARUS

At Heavens door I stood knocking. All the while, the child in me mocking the old wise owl’s instructions. Now I am slipping and sliding downward a spiraling road to destruction. Feeling foul, man soul corruption. 

On the prowl, I fell prey to the predator. Man, what can I say? Now I’m enslaved to the creditor. Indebted to her, for passing pleasures the price I could not possibly pay. More expense then I could measure, more treasure then scales could weigh. 

This fantasy land, I was just visiting man. I never thought that I would stay. I never thought that I would stay! Whoever thought that they would stay?

Imago Dei

Anxious. Twitchy. Out of my element in more ways then one. But- I'm here. I made it. 

When I finally got out of bed this morning, I raised my hands in triumph and did a victory dance into the bathroom. 

Church. I am going to church today. I’ve felt a similar anxiety before job interviews and court appearances. It seemed extremely important to spend more time then usual on personal hygiene, even trimmed the nose hairs.

On the way, I promised myself I wouldn't cry while I was there. I always sob like a baby during worship, it's a mess to clean up- snot and salt water everywhere. I can't help it. God is beautiful, I get emotional. 

Thirty-seven thousand, eight hundred and seventy-eight

Thats the number of people I have spoken to on the phone at work since January 2007. (37,878)